Vigilantes
by Hane no Zaia
Summary: AU. Your everyday college student Alfred F Jones had always wanted to be a hero. Naturally, people disapprove.


_This is the result of a thought experiment of mine from a long time ago, though it could use a better title. Ideas, anyone?  
_

_This story has basically been collecting imaginary dust on my hard drive since forever. Thus, seeing the opportunity, I decided to post it and see if anyone's interested in seeing a continuation.  
_

_Cheers._

**- o0o -**

**Introducing the Hero**

**- o0o -**

The location where our story begins is a city going by the rather peculiar name of Hetalia, a city of once metropolitan ambitions that took a darker turn somewhere along the way. Even today – just as it was back then – it is a city which is divided, if not fractioned, though the lines are at times so blurry and undefined that it is hard to know exactly when one has crossed it. Rich and poor, good and bad, right and wrong; it all comes down to a matter of definition in the end, as well as to a matter of perspective, as one aspiring hero is about to find out.

Oh yes, the hero. We must not forget about him, because an idiot or not, he is still a vital part of all of this, as he is the very thing which ties it all together. He always had this thing for being the very centre of attention, and in time, he became just that, though perhaps not for the reasons he himself had originally intended.

He is nineteen – soon to be twenty – when I first have the rather questionable pleasure of encountering him, and he's a college student of great ambitions and very little common sense, sharing a three-room apartment with his slightly younger half-brother, Matthew Williams (affectionately referred to as Mattie by said idiot).

"Mattie, what's been going on with you lately? I feel like I don't know you anymore…"

The question comes straight out of the blue, directed towards said brother.

The location is the shared living room and kitchenette, and the so called hero receives a blank look in return, along with a very blunt question. "Why the sudden concern?"

Matthew Williams has every reason to ask; since Alfred F Jones is supposedly a hero and a very self-centred one at that, he often fails to notice the comings and goings of his younger sibling. Still, that fact alone has never stopped said hero from trying – often trying a bit too hard – to concern himself with things he needn't have concerned himself with to begin with.

"I'm your big bro, so of course I've got to look out for you. Someone has to. I'm the hero, after all."

The heavily implied protective duties have their reasons; though both brothers are grownups in the eyes of the law, there have never really been any parental figures to speak of, other than a common mother who had left them to fend for themselves from a tender age, prompting the older of them – Alfred – to take up his role as the protector of the other.

Said other – Matthew Williams – says nothing, though he looks mildly annoyed by the other's inquisitiveness. He has his reasons for that too; we will get to those in a bit.

A silent battle ensues, with the hero's blue eyes – blue, so blue – firmly locked on the other as though seemingly trying to force an answer out of him. It doesn't work, and the other only gives him a short look – violet eyes narrowing slightly – before once again directing them towards another target.

"What?" the hero finally snaps, visibly unnerved by the seeming lack of a response.

"Nothing," the other calmly responds, craning his neck, his eyes once again directed at some point beyond his increasingly concerned brother.

Said brother leans down, placing his hands firmly onto the other's shoulders, looking him firmly in the eye all while one of the latter's eyebrow begins to twitch slightly. "So what's up? Is someone bullying you – messing with you? I'll go beat them up for you if you tell me who they are."

The latter's eyebrow continues to twitch. "Al…"

"I mean seriously, you just need to say the word…"

"Al…"

"I mean, I'm your big brother and I'd be perfectly happy to-…"

The other finally speaks up, his voice sharp. "Al."

The hero's head snaps up in attention, recognising no-nonsense tone in the other's voice. "Yeah?"

The other frowns openly at him, putting out a hand to push the hero's head aside. "Would you please get out of the way? I'm trying to watch."

A confused look is his only response. Then finally, a look of understanding crosses the hero's face and he lets go of his brother's shoulders and backs away slightly, putting more distance between them. "Oh! Don't tell me…"

The twitch of Matthew William's left eyebrow is more noticeable now, seeing that the aforementioned idiot hero is still blocking his view of the TV. "What?"

But the hero doesn't notice as the sudden realisation which has struck him has stolen all of his attention, efficiently preventing him from noticing the steadily increasing irritation of his younger brother. "You've got a girlfriend, haven't you?! That's so sneaky of you! Big bro's seriously disappointed in you! Now, who is the lucky lady?"

The other raises an eyebrow in response. "What lady?"

"Your girlfriend, obviously," the hero responds, flailing. "Who is she?"

The other remains motionless in the sofa, leaning against one of the armrests with a look of utter disinterest gracing his features. "There is no girlfriend."

His frankness and definite denial is useless; the hero remains unconvinced.

"Aw, Mattie. You can't lie to me like that. I know you've been seeing someone…"

"How so?" Violet eyes – sharp – refocus on the hero, narrowing slightly. "Have you been stalking me… again?"

The hero looks mildly offended, and mildly guilty too. He denies the notion, as well as any possible responsibility for it. "Hey, that happened once, so lay off. Besides, it was all your fault to begin with."

The other gives him a thoroughly unimpressed look and then looks away, returning his attention to the screen. "Yeah, yeah, all my fault. Now _please_ move aside or I'll throw the remote at you."

The hero looks positively appalled, and especially so when the others movement indicate that the threat might be realised. "Mattie! Violence's bad."

The other snorts in clear disbelief. "You're telling me? You're the one who just offered to go beat some people up…"

The hero sighs in exasperation, throwing his hands out to emphasise the point he is about to make. "So what? Big brother privileges!"

His resident brother remains unimpressed, putting the remote back down as he sits up a bit straighter. "In any case, there is no girlfriend," he says. "I just went to apply for a part-time job…"

The hero expresses his surprise. "Huh? A part-time what? Why?"

The brother's posture sags noticeably, mirroring the tone of his voice, which is resigned. "Seriously, Al? Do you even realise how low on money we are? The rent is due on Monday and we don't even have half of the amount yet…"

"Honestly," said brother continues, exasperation defining his very being. "Where does the money keep on disappearing to?"

The hero shifts guiltily, and the brother looks up, eyes narrowing once more, darkening.

"Al… if you put the money for the rent on your hero obsession, I'll kill you."

The sharp edge to the brother's voice makes the hero cringe slightly, all while he laughs, looking a bit uncomfortable. "Ha ha… but murder is highly illegal, Mattie."

That earns him another sharp look and a hiss in return. "So is being a vigilante."

The hero cringes at the sharpness of the other's words. Then, he opens his mouth to voice some sort of protest, but the other holds up a hand to shut him up and he actually does.

"Al…"

The hero shifts guiltily as violet eyes bore into him.

"I'm not going to ask questions about what you do on your spare time; I respect your privacy as long as you respect mine – even if you don't – but would you please try to pay your share of the rent like a reasonable adult?"

It's a sincere request, a simple don't-ask-and-don't-tell proposal, but it is a futile one, even though the hero seems to be in agreement. "Thanks, Mattie. You're the best little bro a big bro can ask for."

The big brother ruffles the other's hair, tousling elegant locks for a brief moment only to have his hand smacked away in the next. The younger brother's voice is resigned, but softer, and a smile graces his features. "Whatever you say, Al."

The bleak smile is returned in force by the hero, who salutes him readily, heading towards the door, seemingly intent on heading towards new adventures out in the night. The younger brother turns slightly where he sits, eyeing the hero where he bends down to put his running shoes on before snatching a backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. "Just… be careful, okay?"

He receives a thumbs-up in return, and then the hero's out the door, headed towards an unknown destination. The door slams closed, and the smile on Matthew Williams' face is gone in an instant, replaced by a mild frown before he directs his eyes back to the TV, the frown still adorning his features. His voice is soft, barely rising above a whisper, speaking of things often thought but rarely uttered out loud. "…I'd hate to have to bury my own brother…"

The words hang in the air, like an unfinished thought. Then, he picks up the remote and turns the TV off, muttering under his breath. "Al, you idiot…"

Violet eyes linger on the walls, studying the comic book posters hanging there – Al's posters, depicting his idols. They're quite old, but in excellent condition, and they would likely fetch a pretty penny if sold – certainly enough to pay them a month's rent or two – but Matthew knows better than to do away with them; Al cares about them far too much.

Truth to be told, his brother's hero obsession had been going a bit out of hand for a long time, but Matthew has already given up on remedying that one. He knows well that he couldn't stop him; he knows well that he can only discourage him, but can't help but feel that his efforts are futile. He has tried to talk some sense into him, especially so once it had come to his attention that his brother's obsession had expanded to include said idiot actually indulging in activities meant to fight crime all while dressed up as a bloody vigilante.

To say that it had come to his attention was – overall – fairly accurate, seeing that Al himself had never actually confessed to it. Matthew had found the bits and pieces of the costume by pure coincidence, and since he – unlike his brother – is not an idiot, he has since long connected the dots and drawn his own conclusions from that. He disapproves of course, but though he has already seen multiple chances to corner his brother and make him confess, he has not, feigning ignorance instead. After all, he does have his own onset of problems to deal with, and sees no actual need to make Al's heroic escapades his problem. But he disapproves, of course; he always had.

Alfred F Jones thought he had managed to fool his brother with excuses, and said brother continued to feign ignorance in return, watching the hero go about his business with weary eyes. They were both lying, to each other and to themselves, thinking they protected each other in doing so, when they were in reality only protecting themselves while betraying the trust the other had put in them.

Matthew Williams sighs, getting to his feet with the intention of heading off to lock the door, but before he reaches it, a muffled buzzing noise is heard and he pauses momentarily before darting off in direction of the nearby hanger, where his coat is. Moments later, he fishes a foldable cell phone out of one of its deeper pockets, flipping it open to look at the caller ID, frowning openly at it. "…The Hell?"

He presses a button and presses the phone to his ear, speaking calmly. "Yes?"

A momentary pause. "No."

Another. "What?"

"Where?"

"When?"

There is another pause, followed by a heavy sigh. "Okay. Fine. I'll do it, but I have to be back here within the next four hours or so. Yeah, prior commitments; don't ask. Okay. I'll see you soon."

He removes the phone from his ear and presses another button, ending the call before snapping the phone shut altogether and slipping it back into the pocket of his coat before heading off to his room. Minutes later, he emerges in a new set of clothing of the darker variety, pausing briefly to put on a pair of black sneakers before reaching for his coat, pulling it on before disappearing out the door.

Normally, he would've left a note, but he has this feeling Al won't be back in time to miss him anyhow, hence it would be more beneficial for him to keep the evidence of his own nightly escapade to the affordable minimum. After all, it wouldn't do for Al to learn about his own nightly escapades, would it?

With a sigh, he locks the door behind him.

**- o0o -**

Hetalia.

A city divided, defined by its opposites, by its extremes… and by its crime rates.

The location is one of the semi-abandoned warehouses near the harbour, many of which have fallen into the hands of organised crime and come to store much more than the wares they were originally intended for. There are plenty of locked shipping containers, waiting to get shipped elsewhere or simply there to store or hide things and people waiting to be disposed of.

Chains rattle, and emerald eyes blink open, looking blearily into the thick blackness as the sound of ruckus taking place on the outside reaches their owner. There's the sound of chains rattling again, from the outside, followed by a clank and the sound of them impacting on asphalt.

Metal scrapes against metal, following which a latch is torn open.

Bleak light floods into the container, briefly dispersing some of the darkness around him before a greater shadow steps in to block it. "Fear not; the Hero has arrived."

Weary emerald eyes take in the outline of the stranger before him. He groans, muttering under his breath, a British accent seeping through. "Oh merciful God… not another one…"

"Hey!" the self-proclaimed hero protests, stepping closer to set to work on the chains confining the other to the chair. "But I'm here to save you, because I'm the hero, baby!"

The emerald-eyed man just throws his head back, hissing. "Guards! Is it too late to ask for a bullet to the head?!"

This statement earns him a look of surprise from his self-proclaimed saviour. "The guards? Oh, I incapacitated them on my way in…"

The hero leans closer, a bit unnerved by the other's silence. "So… who do I have the pleasure of saving today?"

The other retains his silence. The hero leans even closer. "Come on… at least give me a name. If not then I'll just call you Mr. Caterpillar-Brows."

The other's intensely coloured eyes snap up to level him with a nasty glare. "If my hands were not cuffed, I would strangle you."

The hero laughs good-naturedly. "You're funny."

"Yes," the other responds dryly. "British humour. Now turn me loose so that I can go home."

The chains rattle once more before falling to the ground with a clattering sound. The one previously confined to the chair stretches his stiff neck and limbs before rubbing his aching wrists in silence all while the hero continues to watch him with keen interest.

"Heeey… just one question…"

The emerald-eyed man, getting to his feet somewhat unsteadily, shoots him a glare all while the hero continues to look at him with a great deal of interest.

"Why did these thugs kidnap you anyway?"

The hero finally receives a somewhat casual shrug in return before the other turns his back to him, steadying himself against the walls of the container. "Who knows? Someone probably paid them to, seeing that I have made quite a few enemies over the years…"

The hero makes a thoughtful sound, acknowledging the other's statement all whilst eyeing the other warily as the young man makes his way out of the container, pausing only briefly to turn around, flashing him a bleak smile while giving him the slightest one-handed salute. "Now… Mr. America, it has been *nice* to make your acquaintance, but I must take my leave. Cheers."

The emerald-eyed stranger seeks to make his exit, a bit unsteadily. The hero finally takes note of the stranger's injuries, assessing them quickly and with building concern which followed by a swift decision. He steps forward, hand shooting out to grab the other's wrist. "Hey, wait up."

Vivid eyes grow wide, then narrow. "What?" the stranger snaps.

The hero eyes him with concern intermingling with wonder. He doesn't want to let the other out of his sight; not yet, at least. It is a highly foreign notion, but he feels the sudden need to act upon it. "I've pretty much cleaned up over here, so I'll escort you."

The stranger gives him a flat look, delivering an answer definitely and with utmost conviction. "No."

The hero blinks, confused at encountering such a blatant refusal from a person he has just saved from a bunch of crazy mobsters. "Eeeh? Why not?"

Instinctively, he tightens his grip and pulls the other closer, causing the other to nearly lose his balance. "Hey, knock it off," the stranger hisses at him, trying to pry the hero's offending grip off of him, but having little success with it overall.

"I saved you," the hero insists. "A tiny bit of gratitude would be nice."

The stranger levels him with another glare before swiftly directing his eyes elsewhere, speaking without much commitment. "Fine, whatever. Thank you. Now do bugger off."

"But I-…"

The stranger's eyes fall upon the hero once more. "What?" the hero finally asks, suddenly feeling a bit uncomfortable with the other's scrutiny.

A hand – the one not captured in the hero's grip – is raised, fingertips momentarily brushing against the side of his arm before being retracted once more, held up into the bleak ray of moonlight seeping in through a nearby window. "You're bleeding."

The hero startles at the other's sudden proximity, and he lets go of the other, puzzled by the other's actions as well as the blood he only then realises has been running down his elbow. "Huh? Oh… when did I-…?"

The emerald-eyed stranger – finally liberated from the hero's clutches – takes the opportunity to put some distance between them, walking a bit more steadily compared to a couple of minutes prior. "A bullet seems to have grazed you somewhere along the way…"

The hero looks up at him in surprise, then back at his newly discovered injury. "I didn't even notice…"

The stranger snorts, muttering under his breath. "You idiot… that's why heroes are-…"

The hero's head snaps up in attention. "That's why heroes are what?"

The other gives him a look of utter distaste. "Forget it."

The hero looks mildly crestfallen, especially so as the stranger starts heading towards the exit of the warehouse, stepping both over and between the bodies of fallen goons with surprising ease. Then finally, the green-eyed one pauses at the very exit, turning his head to glance at him. "Anyways… as a token of my endless gratitude, allow me to patch you up," he then says. "That ought to make us even."

**- o0o -**

Maybe an hour later, the hero finds himself standing before the entrance to an apartment complex, all while the other guy – a cynical green-eyed blond – fiddles with the code to the high security lock. The hero, already kind of regretting his spur of the moment decision to follow the man, finds himself fighting a sudden desire to scram. He opens his mouth, with the intention of informing the other of his intentions, however, those strangely vivid eyes pin him in place.

"Relax," the stranger says, just as there's a click signalling that the door has been unlocked. "I'm not going to attempt to uncover your secret identity or whatever. As a matter of fact, I couldn't care less as to who is really behind that mask of yours."

The hero doesn't really know what he should say to that, but in the end, he says the first thing which comes to mind as they enter, moving through the lobby, heading towards the elevators. "You're a pretty weird person."

"I'm not the one prancing around in a spandex suit in the middle of the night," the other responds, pressing the button to the intended floor.

The doors slid closed, and the hero can't seem to help but wonder. "Are you not even slightly curious?"

The stranger retains his silence, speaking only when they reach their floor and exit the elevator. "What difference would seeing your face make?" he responds. "I already know for sure that you are an idiot and a reckless one at that…"

The green-eyed stranger speaks truly. Then again, it takes an idiot to know another.

**- o0o -**

"He-ouch!" The hero recoils, but the other retains his grip on the hero's arm, finishing the injection before gently withdrawing the syringe from under the skin, discarding the used shot onto a nearby table and rubbing the pierced skin slightly, giving the hero a look which is anything but impressed.

"It's just some local anaesthesia."

The hero instinctively snatches his arm back, cradling it protectively. The other snorts at him. "What?" the green-eyed one snaps at him. "You need a couple of stitches."

"Is it really that bad?" the hero asks, worriedly.

"I've seen worse," the green-eyed one responds, relieving the retrieved first aid box of a sterilised needle and some thread. "But it'll probably heal faster if I stitch it."

The big rush of adrenaline has left him, and he actually feels real pain now, though it's fading away again, courtesy of the anaesthesia. It is also around then that reality begins to catch up with the hero – _How the Hell is he going to hide it from Matthew?_ – all while he watches the green-eyed one stitch the still bleeding gash together with keen expertise. He finds himself wondering, and the words roll off his tongue and come tumbling out of his mouth before he's able to stop them. "You seem kind of used to all of this…"

The vivid eyes leave the stitches for a brief moment, awarding him with a short look before the green-eyed one's attention shifts back towards the wound at hand. "In my line of work, you learn to expect the unexpected," the green-eyed one then responds. "Besides, you're by no means the first vigilante I've had the questionable pleasure of encountering."

"Huh?"

The eyes are upon him once more, and before he knows it, the other's hands have left him, the sensation of soft and warm fingertips still burning against his skin. "There, I'm done," the green-eyed one says, cleaning the tools, discarding what is to be discarded before rising to his feet, heading elsewhere. "Now we're even."

The hero stares after him as the other disappears into what is probably a kitchen and starts rumbling through some cabinets. "Thanks, I guess," the hero finally concedes, his face heating up for some reason. "I'm Al, by the way…"

"Al, huh?" the green-eyed one responds from out of sight. "It doesn't suit you; America suits you better. Reckless, much like the leaders of this country."

The hero is not all that sure as to what he is supposed to say to all that. "Ehm… thanks?"

The green-eyed one returns with a steaming teacup in hand, sweeping into the room with a fair deal of gracefulness, his face and partially bare arms showing off the darkening bruises the hero had already forgotten all about. "Still," the green-eyed one says, taking a seat in a comfortable-looking armchair, placing the rim of the cup against his lips. "You shouldn't be so careless in handing out your name to strangers like that…"

The hero startles mildly in one moment, but finds himself relaxing again in the next.

"Your mask is worn for a reason," the other continues, stirring the tea with a contemplative expression gracing his features. "Revealing too much about yourself would make it pointless… Your mask is there to protect not only your identity, but also to protect you…"

The hero looks up, eyeing the stranger with keen interest.

The other sighs, continuing. "The thing with heroes is that they usually die prematurely. If not, then the people they love and cherish are usually the ones who end up being sacrificed…"

There is a pause, filled with conflicting and unspoken emotions.

"Your mask is not there to shield you alone as a person, but also to protect the people who are close to you," the stranger goes on, eyeing him sternly, sombrely. "If an enemy makes a connection between you and your alter-ego, then they are likely to go after your next of kin, either to hold them hostage or to extract revenge…"

Silence.

The hero wonders, but finds himself strangely afraid to ask at the same time. "Who are you?"

Initially, the green-eyed one says nothing, eyeing him with something akin to amusement. "I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually," he finally says, rising to his feet. "And if not, then I'm sure that'll be the best for either for us, don't you think?"

Inwardly, the hero begs to differ.

**- o0o -**

"Um… Jones-san?"

The location is a lecture hall at a local university, a few minutes before the end of a designated break. The hero sits by his usual desk and looks out the window, into the distance.

"Jones-san?"

A slight cough.

"Alfred F Jones-san?"

The hero startles, only then really noticing the person who has been trying to get his attention for the last couples of minutes. "Ah, Kiku! Sorry, didn't see you there."

Honda Kiku – a foreign exchange student hailing from Japan – shifts slightly in his posture, but his dark eyes continue to study the hero, deadpan. "So I see."

Silence settles between them, but it is one for different reasons. Cultural differences, habitual differences, intellectual differences…

One is raised with silence, where there are subtle gestures in the place of words.

Another is raised in the midst of words, where silence is punishment, a show of disapproval.

Eventually, it drags on too long, leaving the hero to shift uncomfortably beneath the unwavering look of silence under which he is pinned, awkward laughter bubbling up in his throat to dispel the awkward silence, breaking its malevolent spell, all while his own face breaks out into a bright grin. "So, what's up? Need any help?"

An awkward shift, eyes averted. "Ah, no. Jones-san… I was merely wondering…"

A look of surprise, eyes filled with ill-concealed curiosity. "Wondering what?"

Another shift.

"Come on, Kiku. We've been over this before," The hero leans backwards in his seat, tilting his head up slightly to level his friend with a look of something akin to exasperation. "It's Alfred or Al, not Jones – We've been through this before. What's up?"

Dark eyes meet baby blue ones for just a brief second, as the friend speaks hesitantly to the hero. "Are you alright, Alfred-san?"

Said hero has a look of surprise on his face for a brief second before a grin is once again plastered across it. "Why wouldn't I be alright? I'm always alright."

The hero is always alright, even when he is not.

The foreign friend shifts awkwardly yet again, his eyes averted once more. "I'm very sorry; I just thought…"

The voiced thought remains unfinished, echoing out into silence, which drags on for long enough for the hero's grin to gradually vanish and for the hero himself to tilt his head to the side in a show of confusion. "You just thought?"

The friend takes a deep breath, seemingly steeling himself for the inevitable. "You just seemed a bit out of it, Alfred-san… not to mention… your face looks kind of flushed to me…"

Blue eyes widen in clear surprise, and the hero suddenly leans forward, a hand to his face. "Seriously?!"

The friend – usually wary about both instigating and receiving any greater degree of physical contact – leans closer, already apologising for invading the other's personal space. "Excuse me."

"Ah, Kiku – what are you-…?"

The hero's initiated protest is left unfinished as Kiku Honda's hand lands on his forehead, checking his temperature. "You seem a little hot, but I don't think you have a temperature…"

"Of course not." The hero laughs, incredulous. "I never catch colds."

His friend nods sagely, withdrawing. "So they say."

"So who says?" The hero kicks up an eyebrow in response, clearly puzzled. "Who says – Hey, Kiiiku?"

The hero's friend shrugs mildly, his expression apologetic. "It's just a figure of speech. Pay it no heed…"

The hero's eyebrow lowers, slowly, and he slumps in his seat. "Fine…"

The hero's friend takes a seat next to him, a tinge of worry remaining in his features. "But really, Alfred-san… Are you quite alright?"

The hero's grin returns. "Hell yeah. Of course I am. Why are you wondering?"

The friend levels him with a look, but keeps silent for long enough so that the hero once again shifts awkwardly, seemingly feeling the pressure of it and the urge to break it.

"No really, what's up Kiku? That look's really creepy, you know? No offence or anything."

The answer is immediate, low but deadpan. "None taken."

The break finally comes to an end, and latecomers scramble into the hall with the hopes of making it to their seats before the lecturer puts his large cup of coffee aside to resume the lecture.

The hero sneaks a glance at the professor before once again turning his attention towards his friend, still not content with the answers the other has provided him with, fully intent on continuing their conversation into the lecture. "Come on, Kiku?" he wonders out loud as the other sends him a somewhat startled look, only then lowering his voice to a whisper. "What's up?"

Honda Kiku retains his silence for a while, before turning his eyes back towards the professor, seemingly intent on paying attention to the lecture, his voice a mere whisper. "No, it's nothing. Pardon the intrusion."

The hero attempts to protest, but a sharp reprimand from the lecturer cuts it short.

The lecture is continued, and the pair take notes in silence, some more dutifully than others. However, once the lecture comes to its end, Honda Kiku – previously occupied with the task of dutifully taking notes – rises from his seat, swiping his notebook and pencil kit into his satchel before heaving it onto his shoulder, seemingly intent on making a speedy departure much unlike usual, where he has a tendency to linger for one reason or the other. "I have to go. I'll see you tomorrow."

The hero also rises, but reacts too slowly to keep up with the other's escalated pace. "Hey, wait a minu-… Kiku?"

The friend pauses momentarily, turning his head slightly before he exits the room. "Take care, Alfred-san." And then, he is gone, swallowed up by a crowd with similar intentions to make a speedy departure, leaving a very much confused hero behind to scratch his head, greatly puzzled with what he perceives to be the utterly strange behaviour of his occasional companion.

"Gee… what's up with that guy?"

In the end, without asking the right questions at the right times with the other humouring them, one can only wonder.

**- o0o -**

The location is a modern office building – more specifically a particular office of a particular newspaper located near the business district of the city of Hetalia – in which a certain person's fair-haired boss sits at his desk, waiting for a late-arriving employee.

A door clicks open, but the boss does not look up, continuing to busy himself with his laptop even when the door clicks again, signalling that it has been pushed back shut. "Ah, Mister Kirkland. It's about time that you-…" The boss finally looks up, and then, finally noticing the state of said employee, a pair of vividly violet eyes widen. "Kirkland?! Your face…"

"Ah, yes. It looks pretty bad, doesn't it?" Arthur Kirkland responds, making a vague gesture towards the highly visible bruises adorning his face.

"Yes!" his boss readily agrees, sounding far more concerned than angry. "What happened?"

The previously wayward employee shrugs casually. "A rough night happened."

The seeming concern diminishes slightly. "Out drinking again?" his boss then asks, speaking with some degree of wryness.

"Perfectly sober, actually," Arthur Kirkland readily responds, perfectly used to his boss' occasional interrogations regarding his late night activities.

Said boss sighs, leaning back into his chair. His eyes close briefly before snapping back open, as sharp as they usually are, at least during working hours. "Were you mugged?"

Intuitive as usual, Kirkland's boss is. "Something like that."

"Kirkland."

He cannot help but stiffen slightly at the authority carried in the other's voice. "Yes, sir?"

"I'm going to page my secretary."

His shoulders slump slightly; he is exhausted but trying not to show it too openly. "I'll go wait outside."

However, his boss isn't having anything of it, pointing to stuffed armchair located to one side of the office. "Stay."

He obliges without a fuss, knowing well that his boss – though generally level-headed and even gentle in his disposition – can become a very frightening individual and thus should not be provoked or disobeyed if such a situation could be avoided.

His boss' expression softens slightly. Then, the man hauls out a smaller technological device, speaking into it. "Feliks… my office, now."

Arthur Kirkland sighs, slumping in his seat, already knowing what to expect.

Less than twenty seconds later, the door to the office is slammed open, revealing a much dreaded but fairly harmless individual of highly questionable tastes and habits. "Tino-darling, you like needed my assistance or something?"

His boss – Tino Väinämöinen – remains seated at his desk, typing on his laptop. "Not I, Feliks… However, Mr. Kirkland here…" He pauses briefly in his typing, only to make a vague gesture towards the aforementioned, who is immediately awarded with the less desired attention of Feliks Łukasiewicz, his boss' decidedly flamboyant secretary.

"Ah, dude, you look like you've been slapped in the face with a door or something, like a dozen times or something…"

Arthur Kirkland is unable to refrain from frowning disapprovingly, especially so as the other pulls out what seems to be a first-aid kit, except with makeup.

"Arthur-darling, you really shouldn't frown; it's bad for your skin."

His frown only deepens, earning himself a look of disapproval from the aforementioned secretary. Snorting softly, he averts his eyes as a far too eager-looking Feliks sets about to apply some sort of cream to his face, likely to make the bruises adorning his face, head and neck a bit less obvious, even though he really fails to see the point in hiding them now, seeing that he is positive that at least a third of the editorial department had spotted the bruises on his face while he made his way in.

Seemingly aware of what he is thinking, Tino Väinämöinen speaks, continuing to type as he does so. "Let him work, Kirkland, and be happy I won't deduct anything on your pay check. Even in this recession, we're doing fine… However, there is a limit to the lenience I can offer. A prized columnist and talented journalist or not, I will have to consider finding a replacement in case you continue being a no-show and fail to turn in your assigned work on time…"

The words themselves are not particularly threatening, but within them there is a hidden edge; a warning.

"Mr. Väinä-…"

"Tino is fine," his boss shoots back, cutting him short, finally lifting his eyes from the screen. "Besides…"

Arthur Kirkland doesn't look up; he averts his eyes instead, all while Feliks puts the finishing touches on his work, assembles his stuff and exits the office with a cheerful wave.

"We're acquaintances, aren't we?" his boss finally continues, returning his eyes to the screen, resuming his intent typing. "Admittedly, there is a time and place in which to be formal, but we should know each other well enough by now to forego such principles, especially so when not in the company of others, shouldn't we?"

"I prefer to keep my life at work and my life outside of work separate as separate as possible," Arthur responds, rising to his feet, silently wishing he had a mirror to determine whether or not Feliks had actually gone a bit too far in regards to the makeup. "Survival strategies, you know."

Tino Väinämöinen just smiles as Arthur Kirkland makes his way towards the door. "Call me and let me know how that works out for you."

His hand already resting on the door handle, Arthur Kirkland shrugs. "Alas, my phone suffered a lesser misfortune the other day… at the hands of the ones who roughed me up…"

The violet-eyed man sitting at the desk snorts, blowing a stray test of finely combed blond hair out of his face while he is at it. "Sounds like a convenient excuse to me," he dryly notes, opening the top drawer of his desk and reaching into it. "Nevertheless, I had expected as much," he continues, a cell phone now in his hand. "So I prepared for it."

Turning around fully, Arthur easily catches the phone as it is thrown to him, levelling his boss with a look of mild distaste. "How much do I owe you?"

"You owe me a drink," Tino responds with a sigh, stapling his fingers. "Besides, you look like you could use one as well."

Arthur looks from the phone to his boss, a wry smile threatening to appear on his lips. "Encouraging me to drink now, are you, Tino?"

"Not really," his boss responds, a similar wryness to his smile. "I'm encouraging you to socialise – to hang out with old friends or to make new ones – rather than to hang out in shady warehouses getting the shit kicked out of you and getting saved by random hero wannabes…"

Arthur Kirkland stiffens momentarily before relaxing. "Did Nor tell you?"

"He may have, but I mostly assumed," Tino calmly responds, resuming his typing.

"But he is still keeping tabs on me, isn't he?"

"What he does and doesn't do is his own business." Tino shrugs mildly in response. "I've retired."

"Indeed?" Arthur snorts. "How's family life treating you?"

"If you joined us for drinks more often, you would know," Tino smiles. "If not for drinks, then you should at least stop by sometime, to see Peter if nothing else…"

Ah, Peter, a sore topic that Arthur Kirkland would rather not discuss that his boss seems – admittedly for quite sensible reasons – intent on not letting go of lest he can help it. In a way, one might possibly even assume that this topic is the very reason Arthur generally spends as little time as possible engaged in conversations with just about anyone working in the building, seeing that people seem strangely intent and annoyingly persistent in bringing it up again and again and again and again and agai-…

"I'm sure he doesn't want to see me," Arthur finally responds, shrugging. "He made that pretty clear the last time."

That last time needs no explanation; they both know which particular time is being referred to.

"Arthur," Tino retorts, levelling him with a look of disapproval. "He is eight."

"What?" Arthur retorts, leaning his back against the door. "He is the result of a night of too much alcohol mixed in with a case of raging hormones and poor judgement back when I was sixteen, and he knows that as well as I do; his own damn mother made that pretty damn clear to him."

"Even so, I think you should come over more often," Tino insists, persistent as always. "If for nothing else, then to show him that you actually care for his wellbeing…"

"Why?" Arthur snorts again. "You and Berwald have done a far better job in caring for him than I ever could've. You're his parents. He's already got two fathers, so why would he need another one, especially now that he's got three additional uncles at the very least?"

Besides, the kid would know – if not now then later in life – that Arthur cared about his wellbeing very much and even to such an extent that he saw his own looming failure as a father figure and found the kid some people who wouldn't screw everything up and turn him into a fifteen-years-younger copy of his nerve wreck of a father, and Tino knows that because Arthur had at some point in time explained it to him. However – as they are both by now painfully aware of – knowing is not the same as understanding.

"You still owe me a drink," Tino insists, agonisingly persistent. "The usual place, at the usual time, that is, unless you have any further complaints?"

Arthur Kirkland sighs, resigning to his fate.

**- o0o -**

Elsewhere, in the eastern end of the general shopping district – in the area commonly referred to as Chinatown – a delivery is being made to one of the older and more renowned establishments. Or rather, to be precise, a mildly frowning courier stands before a locked front door, his eyes alternating between the clearly visible CLOSED-sign and the nondescript post-it in his hand, rechecking his instructions for the umpteenth time already before sagging in his posture, having reached a conclusion. He sighs, sending the doorbell to his right a brief glance before turning around, contemplating his next move. However, before he is able to act upon his earlier conclusion, the intercom suddenly buzzes. _"Yes?"_

For a brief moment, the courier is stunned into silence, but recovers swiftly, automatically bowing his head slightly as a manner of greeting, forcing a smile seeing that he is now sure that he is being watched, pressing a button to speak into the thing. "Good morning. I'm here to deliver the item you ordered."

The response is swift; businesslike. _"Ah. I'll send someone down right away."_

For what seems like mere seconds later, the door clicks open, revealing the face of a young man of Asian descent, wearing a deadpan expression, catching the courier somewhat off guard. "Um… Hi."

"Hello," the young man – who seems little more than a boy – responds, his voice just as deadpan as his facial expression.

"The delivery," the courier says, turning over the package he had previously kept tucked under his arm, along with a nondescript form attached to a pen. "Sign here, please."

The boy takes the items, but frowns openly at the form.

"Is there a problem?"

The boy pauses for a brief moment, before seemingly making a decision. "Owner will sign it," he finally says, opening the door a bit further. "I'll bring it upstairs. Come inside and wait."

The courier blinks, rather surprised at the sudden offer of hospitality. "Ah, that's not necessary. I'll just…"

The boy just gives him a blank look. "Come inside and wait."

Finally obliging, the courier steps inside; allowing the boy to shut the door behind them. "Pardon the intrusion," he finds himself murmuring to no one in particular, as the boy points to a chair nearby.

"Take a seat," the boy offers, package and form secure in his grip as he swiftly makes his way up a case of stairs, disappearing out of sight within seconds, and leaving an uncomfortable courier behind, wavering whether or not to take a seat.

However, he is not left waiting for long, as the boy swiftly returns with the form, holding it out to him. "Here."

"Thank you," the courier responds, shifting under the boy's strange scrutiny. "Then… I should get going."

He makes it to the door before a voice calls him back. "Wait."

He turns. "Yes?"

A small package, seemingly pulled out of nowhere, is presented before him. He looks towards the boy, expecting some sort of explanation.

"The owner sends his regards."

He accepts the package, and the boy elaborates. "It's green tea."

"I can see that." The comment makes him sound sarcastic; he realises that, so he swiftly adds "Send my thanks" to it.

The boy looks at him, seemingly evaluating him, before opening the door and holding it open for him. "I will."

The courier disappears out the door, puzzled and experiencing a certain sense of foreboding as the door clicks shut behind him. Then, he shrugs it off, stuffing the form and the unexpected gift into his bag before making his way down the street, already headed towards the location of his next delivery, largely oblivious to the hidden eyes keeping a keen eye on him.

**- o0o -**

Elsewhere – in the shared apartment – the hero enters, finding to his surprise that his younger brother is nowhere to be seen. The prepared grin fades, and the hero's posture shifts, a look of disappointment crossing his face for a brief moment before it brightens once more as the hero sets off in direction of the refrigerator.

That day is just another day; seemingly insignificant, it is just another day, but it is also – largely unbeknownst to those experiencing it – merely another nail into the coffin, bringing things closer and closer to the inevitable conclusion. However, as in all good old tales, the things of any seeming importance all take place at night-time, don't they?

**- o0o -**

"You look tired."

The location is a modern office building, more specifically the office of _the Hetalia Post_, at a quarter to three in the morning.

"Working late again, Tino?"

Tino Väinämöinen pauses where he sits by his desk, typing away on his computer to look up at the person addressing him from the deeper shadows cast by the light of his desk lamp, a bleak smile adorning his features. "Don't I always?"

There is a click out in the shadows; it is the sound of a gun being cocked. "You shouldn't do that. It's bad for your health…"

He wearily leans back into his seat, closing his eyes briefly. "Aren't you working late as well, Gil?"

The other – one Gilbert Beilschmidt – smiles, stepping out of the shadows and into the light. "Maybe."

Tino sighs, leaning forward again to continue working, even as the other steps even closer, gun still pointed at him. "Does Ludwig know you're still carrying that around?"

There is a snort, and then, after another click, the handgun is once again secured. The other – seemingly an albino with his whitish hair and eerie red eyes – steps forward again, finally reaching the desk and laying the handgun down onto it. "Kesesese… You're really no fun the way you are now. A bit of a wuss or not, I liked you way better back then."

Tino glances at the gun on his desk for a brief moment before continuing to type. "I've retired."

"So did I, but you can always go back…"

The other's tone is playful, but not unserious.

"Even so, I've retired," Tino responds, finally hitting _Enter_ to send the message he had only then finished typing. "I've got a career and a family to take care of now. Besides, even if I didn't, I'm hardly the man for the job."

"Tch," the other snorts while shifting his posture slightly. "You've become so dull."

Tino says nothing, giving the other a brief look before turning his attention back to the screen.

"Still," Gilbert notes. "You're still the greatest crack shot I know."

He only receives a slight nod in response, as the other seemingly absentmindedly acknowledges the compliment. "It was a long time ago. I've gotten rusty."

The albino doesn't believe a word of it.

**- o0o -**

The location is the rooftop across the street from a pub in the seedier part of the city, close to the Harbour District and the location where a shooting had taken place the night before, leaving a total of eight still unidentified bodies in its wake.

The hero is out there again, scouting out the area, looking for bad guys to stalk and apprehend – maybe. As such, imagine his surprise when he finds that the rooftop he had scouted out as his next viewpoint is already occupied, and his surprise only amplifies when the other calmly greets him as though he had been expected even without looking up from what he appears to be doing. "Ah, Ameridiot. We meet again."

Whoa. _Really?_ What are the odds?

The hero is momentarily flabbergasted. "You? What are you doing here, Caterpillar-Brows?"

The other removes the pair of binoculars he had been using and turns his head slightly, watching him with narrowed emerald eyes. "It's Arthur Kirkland."

The hero frowns momentarily, recognising the name but not enough to place it immediately. "Kirkland? Sounds way familiar… where have I-…?"

The name does sound familiar – very, _very_ familiar – but where the Hell had he…?

Then, it suddenly strikes him. "Wait. The journalist? _The_ Arthur Kirkland? Really?"

The other – mildly disguised with a cap and a scarf and all – gives him a look which clearly says _No shit, Sherlock._ Suddenly, the hero feels a tad embarrassed, scratching the back of his neck, not quite sure as to what to say. "My brother's a big fan."

The other quirks an eyebrow slightly in response. "Your brother?"

"Yeah, my little bro," the hero affirms with a hint of pride.

The other just hums in response and turns back to his original position, lifting the pair of binoculars to his eyes. "Forward my condolences."

The hero gives the journalist a look of utter confusion. "Condolences?"

"For having such an idiotic brother," the other flatly delivers, not even sparing him a second glance even as the hero denies his own blatantly obvious idiocy. "I know what it means to be a little brother," the journalist goes on to claim, still looking at something through the pair of binoculars. "My brothers and I never really got along."

The hero snickers good-naturedly in response. "But me and Mattie are like bestie-…" – He pauses momentarily, suddenly conscious of the fact that a) he should not casually throw the name of his civilian brother around even whilst conversing with seemingly harmless albeit somewhat eccentric journalists, and b) that they really aren't like best friends; not anymore. – "We do get along, we-…"

"Does he know?" Arthur Kirkland cuts into it, still without sparing him as much as a glance. When the hero does not immediately respond and is seemingly confused by the question, the journalist finally elaborates, keeping his voice low. "Does he know… what you do?"

"Ah… no… I…" The hero is momentarily stumped, a fact which is by no means lost on the other, who is by no means surprised by either this admission or the one which soon follows. "He wouldn't like it…"

At this, the journalist finally looks up from the pair of binoculars, emerald eyes levelling on the hero who cannot help but stiffen under their unwavering gaze. "So you lied to him, then?"

The hero swallows, suddenly at a loss in regards to what to say. Then, the intense gaze leaves him just as suddenly as Arthur Kirkland once again lifts the pair of binoculars up to stare off at whatever he has been observing for these last couple of minutes, if not hours. "I won't lecture you on how you go about your business; it's none of my business," the man informs him. "However, do take a word of caution."

The hero's posture – having relaxed some – once again stiffens slightly, nervously.

"You lie to him," Arthur Kirkland says, continuing to look at something in the distance. "To protect him, I'd wager, though mostly to protect yourself…" – He pauses momentarily, frowning slightly at something. – "You're afraid to see him get hurt because of you," he then says, words sharp as razors but by no means charged with any significant amount of malicious intent. "But you're just as afraid – possibly even more afraid – to get hurt yourself, because you fear rejection."

Outwardly, the hero rejects the notion. Inwardly, he initially wonders, and then finally rejects it just as fully. "Heh… it's nothing like that, I just-…"

"Like I said," Arthur Kirkland says, removing the pair of binoculars from his face and rising to his feet. "I'm not here to lecture you," he goes on to claim, sliding the pair of binoculars back into the shoulder bag he has up until that point kept next to himself. "This is just a piece of advice, so you can take it or leave it. However…" he continues, heaving the sizeable satchel onto his shoulder, levelling the hero with an almost eerie gaze that knows all too much already. "One day," he finally says, adjusting his cap and scarf. "You might end up losing something important due to telling a lie too many…"

There is a warning in those words, but the hero flat-out dismisses them with a snort. "He's my brother, not my girlfriend," the hero goes on to claim, brashness blossoming up and taking the place of earlier uncertainty. "Besides," he continues, speaking with confidence. "I've got this."

Arthur Kirkland levels him with yet another meaningful look. Then, he too snorts dismissively and perhaps a tad disdainfully too. "You've got this, you say?" he repeats, mockery now fairly apparent in his tone of voice. "Well, whatever you say…" He turns around, making his way over to the other end of the rooftop and onto the very edge of it, stepping onto the ledge whilst the hero – suddenly nervous about the other's strange behaviour and seeming intentions – edges closer to him, not quite sure as to what the other is planning.

"Arthur?"

Arthur Kirkland turns his head slightly, narrowed eyes levelling on the hero, seemingly daring him to get closer. Then, once the hero has once again stilled – about two metres away but a fair bit of distance nonetheless – the journalist finally speaks. "Then, what?" Arthur Kirkland openly challenges, turning around fully now, with the heels of his shoes now dangerously close to the edge. "What happens the day that the hero is the one who needs saving?" he goes on, glaring outright now. "Heroes are not omnipotent; they're human – some of them, at any rate – humans that feel, get hurt, bleed… humans that die – in one way or the other – and often prematurely…" – A slight gust of wind blows past them, and the hero is once again reminded of just how close to the edge the other is standing, his own leg muscles already tensing up should he need to dive forth to seize the other before he plummeted down into the alleyway below. – "Even with your ridiculous strength and luck, you are just as mortal as the rest of us," Arthur spits at him, and when the hero makes an attempt to respond to this, the other blatantly cuts him off. "Don't interrupt me," the green-eyed enigma snaps, and the hero actually obliges, however unwittingly.

Briefly, there is a pregnant pause between them. Then, finally, after several seconds of tense silence has passed, Arthur speaks up once more. "One day," he readily promises. "One day, your recklessness will get you killed, and if not, then someone near and dear to you might be the one to pay the price…"

He pauses once again, voice and expression softening some. "But, as I said, I'm not here to lecture you," he then informs him, shifting slightly so that he once more has his back to the hero. "Go if you like, stay if you like," he says, looking straight ahead even as the hero moves closer again. "It's your choice."

The hero – having finally managed to get close enough to reach the other – reaches out to him, but just as his fingers are almost fully enclosed around the surprisingly thin wrist of the journalist, a shot rings out into the night, and he startles involuntarily, involuntarily squeezing his eyes shut. Then, the sounds of scattered gunfire cease just as suddenly as they had appeared, and the hero's brain finally snaps back into action and he looks around frantically for the other, who is suddenly nowhere to be found. The hero himself swirls around, only to find the rooftop empty now, with the man who had been there mere moments before nowhere in sight.

He looks around, but finds nothing – not even the slightest trace – and the hero is halfway ready to dismiss the whole incident as a visual and auditory hallucination. However, after he goes to check out the previous shooting and finds the place positively crawling with police arriving in a steady stream of patrol cars with blazing sirens and blinking lights, he opts to leave this one to the officials and heads off to check this other matter.

It takes a while before he finds a good spot to survey the building in which the famed journalist has his flat. The hero finds himself wishing for a pair of binoculars of his own then, when he attempts to figure out whether or not the other is at home. However, once he has tracked down the right windows to look at and sees the lights being turned off, he breathes a sigh of relief and immediately prepares to head back home, now confident that the other is safe and sound, not really reflecting upon why this particular person's safety and wellbeing is of such significance.

Suffice to say, he never notices the multiple sets of hidden eyes watching his every move.

**- o0o -**

Meanwhile – in a modern apartment complex of a neighbouring city – the doorbell rings repeatedly, bringing a tired but still very much awake IT designer stumbling towards it. "Yes, yes… I'm coming!" the aforementioned says, raising his voice just slightly with the feeble hope that the one on the other side of the door will cease their insistent pressing of buttons.

Then – to his great relief – the ringing comes to a sudden stop and he – because he is overworked, stressed-out, tired and not thinking straight – doesn't bother to check just who is standing outside the door – even though a normally heightened sense of paranoia derived from certain experiences tells him that he should, _always_ – and instead unlocks and opens the thing straight away, speaking without even getting a good look at the person standing there. "Sorry to have kept you waiting," he automatically greets them. "How may I be of servi-…"

Finally looking up – or rather, finally registering just who is standing in front of him – the words he had been meaning to say lie forgotten, and even if they hadn't, he still would not have been able to say them, as he actually stands frozen in terror at the sight of the imposing figure before him.

"Good evening, Estonia," Ivan Braginskij – alias Mister Russia – greets him cheerfully with a slight wave, accentuating the old steel faucet pipe held in his hand. "Belated greetings from Siberia…" – The man's smile broadens noticeably. – "You missed me, _да_?"

The last question is purely rhetorical, as Ivan Braginskij isn't really expecting any answer other than yes. Then again – as no answer at all automatically equals to one of consent – it hardly matters as the man none too gently shoves his still frozen former subordinate back into the latter's apartment before the oblivious neighbours are no longer so oblivious, and – in a worst case scenario – no longer so alive. "Now, make yourself useful, _да_?" Ivan Braginskij urges him, cheerfully but with an obvious edge to his voice. "Where's your friend?"

Had Eduard von Bock – previously known as Estonia – not already been practically petrified, then that last question would definitely have done it. Instantly, he feels as though he had been doused by icy water, which is not all that far from the truth seeing that the man still grasping him by the shoulder whilst pushing the door closed behind them is hardly radiating any warmth; it is rather the complete opposite.

In effect having sealed his own fate – for the second time in his life – Eduard feels his shoulders sag slightly. There is a wall behind him providing some degree of support; without it, he would no doubt have crumbled, as his knees are already ready to buckle as it is. Then, he has to put a lot of effort not to flinch too violently when a far too familiar faucet attached to a far too familiar steel pipe is positioned beneath his chin and forces it slightly upwards, forcing his eyes to meet the practically glowing ones belonging to Ivan Braginskij. "Where…" – The pipe moves slightly, for emphasis. – "…Is your friend, Estonia?"

He tries not to swallow, very much aware as to how close the aforementioned pipe is and of just how little it would take – both in terms of force and in terms of provocation – for the other to use it to crush his windpipe.

"Which friend… did you have in mind, Sir?" he finally asks, trying to keep his voice both steady and meek, as he knows well that a blatant show of weakness is likely to provoke the man even further, just as a blatant show of feigned confidence would. In a way, he finds himself comparing it to facing a grizzly bear, where an injured prey's whimpers of distress only brought it back to finish the job. The man in front of him – dressed in his familiar either military style or military inspired greatcoat and long white scarf – is certainly big enough to qualify, and ferocious enough to beat one to death with either his steel pipe or possibly even with his bare hands. With that in mind – and with him – Eduard himself – having little physical combat prowess to speak of – it would be suicidal not to oblige, and he does, even whilst knowing he is in effect selling out both present and former comrades of his for the sake of saving his own skin. Then again, they are not the ones faced with it all, are they?

"Ravis is in Europe," he quickly rattles off, feeling some amount of pressure on his throat. "Toris is… probably in Hetalia City, and-…"

The pressure gradually increases, and he goes silent as the other leans closer, eyes narrowing slightly. "Where…" Ivan repeats, his voice colder now than previously. "…Is Финля́ндия?"

"Hetalia City," Eduard swiftly responds, far too desperate to get out of this situation to think all that much about the long-term consequences. "In Hetalia City."

The pressure on his throat remains and eyes the colour of gleaming violet study him intently, seemingly scrutinising him for signs of lying. "Well…" – As though a hidden switch had been pressed, the pressure lets up and then disappears altogether, and he sinks to the floor, unable to stand any longer as Ivan positively beams down at him from above, the very image of childish innocence and eagerness. – "We've got to go and pay him a visit then, _да_?"

**- o0o -**


End file.
